


morning breath (is just fine by me)

by echoboo



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics), The Flash (Comics), Titans (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Dick Grayson, Bisexual Male Character, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Agent 37, First Dates, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Memory Alteration, New 52, Post-Flashpoint (DCU), Rollerblades & Rollerskates, Rollerblading, Rollerskating, Spyral (DCU), Timeline Shenanigans, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but dick doesn't remember that, canon rewrite of Grayson #7, i read this scene in Grayson #7 and thought "what if...", i'm so chaotic but this is the product of that chaos, only a lil bit of angst at the end, wally is dick's favourite redhead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28163295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoboo/pseuds/echoboo
Summary: “Of course you’re good at roller skating,” he pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, really — what aren’t you good at?”There was a couple seconds pause as Dick pondered his answer before Wally hardened his gaze, cutting him off with a jab of his finger.“Don’t answer that,” the redhead grumbled.-or, Dick remembers his first date with Wally at the roller rink - or tries to, at least.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Wally West
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	morning breath (is just fine by me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on issue #7 of the Grayson comics, where Dick as Agent 37 is trying to stop the Fist of Cain (disguised as the band Sin by Silence) from manipulating a bunch of people at a peace rally into attacking each other, and at one point he mentions roller skating as a teenager with his favourite redhead. When I read it, I immediately wondered who Dick's favourite redhead was since it never specified (and Dick knows a lot of redheads), which sent me down this rabbit hole of a one-shot.
> 
> (of course this is what I came up with, I'm so far up birdflash's ass, honestly)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

If someone had asked a 15-year-old Dick Grayson what he saw himself doing in seven years, working as a gun-wielding undercover spy, trying to avoid getting stabbed by un-peaceful protestors — emphasis on the _un_ — and being _legally deceased_ would not have been even remotely considered as options.

As he leapt through the chaos of people polluting Rabin Square — disarming knives and other makeshift weapons the compromised citizens of Tel-Aviv had procured as he wove between them and used their shoulders as vaults for his flips through the air — he tried to shake the fuzziness nibbling at the edges of his mind. His lips still felt warm from the kiss Helena had planted on him just seconds earlier; it’d caught him so off guard that he hadn’t had time to even process what had happened before she was gone and throwing punches at the nearest person, while Dick ran off in the opposite direction towards the stage. He had to get to the Brain before this bloodbath could get any worse, and before he succumbed to its effects, too — his “good-ness” be damned.

By the time he was clearing the last row of tangled bodies at the edge of the stage, Dick was zoned in. The band was just getting to the final chorus of “Stand Down No More,” and the rhythmic guitar riff (that Dick would lament not being able to bench press to anymore) was bounding through the speakers while the lead singer held the glowing sphere — what was _originally_ the symbol for the peace rally before the Fist of Cain hijacked it and installed the Paragon’s brain inside — above his head. They continued playing, not even noticing the spy as he landed on the stage.

Dick heard the whoosh of the thrown knife before he saw it. _Midnighter_ , he seethed as he leapt forward, shoving himself in front of the targeted singer before the knife could reach him and knocking the blade out of the air with a kick of his foot. He glared into the crowd as the knife clattered to the ground, immediately spotting the cowled vigilante in the mess. “ _No. Killing._ ” Dick chastised. With a grunt, he dropped into a crouch, swinging his legs around and knocking the singer off his feet. “Knocking highfalutin lead singers off their pedestal, though? A-okay.”

As the man tumbled to the ground, Dick grabbed the sphere out of the air. “You know what gets me the most?” The spy quipped, jumping just as the swing of a guitar came down and smashed into the stage where he was just standing. “You guys recorded the ballad ‘Morning Breath (is just fine by me)’.”

Hugging the sphere to his chest, he launched his left leg out, nailing the guitarist who had just swung at him in the abdomen and sending him into the drum kit. “I roller-skated to that song with my favourite redhead when I was a teenager,” said Dick, the words just flowing off his tongue without thought. “Now it’s totally ruined.”

Dick allowed himself only a split second pause in the action as he thought about _where the hell_ that _comment came from_ before he was moving again, blocking the swing of another guitar towards his head with the sphere. And as he continued, taking out the last of the band and quipping like it was second nature, ripping the Brain from the sphere and only nearly smashing it against the stage before stopping himself — it was like the moment never happened.  
  
  


-

When Wally had decided to take Dick to the roller rink, this was not how he had imagined it going.

It was a bright Friday afternoon. The inside of the arena was dim, save for the colourful streams of light emanating onto the waxy floor, Christmas lights strung from the edges of the ceiling towards the spinning disco ball at its centre. Beneath the vibrant beams, a crowd of people populated the rink, traffic circling the boards in a counter-clockwise fashion, wheels of the roller skates tied to peoples’ feet clicking and gliding across the floor. The room was filled with happy chatter and laughter, and from the speakers, the sultry voice of Kenny Loggins crackled through as it reached the chorus of “Footloose”. It was something straight out of the 70s, which, granted, was probably when the rink opened — and yet somehow, Wally had never been until now.

The redhead pondered that thought as he attempted another step forward into the rink, his hand gripping the railing beside him like a lifeline, and as his skate nearly flew out from underneath him, he thought that — well, perhaps it was for a reason.

Wally knew he probably looked like a toddler taking his first steps rather than a fully grown 17-year-old. Despite all the muscle he’d built up on his legs from running, they still looked like wobbly twigs on the roller skates, a metronome forever trying to catch its balance. But every time he mustered enough confidence to take another step, the wheels of the skates would send his legs out from under him and he’d be flailing to catch himself on the railing again — and based on how embarrassing this already is, he’d very much rather _not_ end up on his ass.

So as the other patrons flew past him on the floor, the most he could do was grumble in embarrassment, hands still clutching the paint-chipped railing. He’s a speedster, for crying out loud! He should be dancing circles around the rink with the grace and speed of his namesake, not sheepishly hugging the wall. And his legs definitely shouldn’t be this shaky.

With a determined huff, Wally set his gaze, pushing himself off from the wall with his arms, letting himself glide into the floor — and immediately regretting it as a skater nearly clipped him on her way past, sending him scrambling to re-stabilize himself. Once he caught his balance, knees bent and hands out in front of him, he relished in the pride of _miraculously not falling flat on his butt_ before another pair of skates strode up from the corner of his vision, pausing right in front of him.

“Having some trouble there, Wal?”

Wally stood up straight — slowly, because he’s not about to risk it — to meet Dick’s amused grin. The raven-haired boy had a hand on his hip where his crewneck sweater was just barely riding up near his belt, oceanic eyes shimmering beneath the neon lights and a barely noticeable flush on his cheeks from exertion — but most importantly he was sturdily planted on both feet. In fact, the toe of one of his skates was pointed into the air, the weight placed on its back wheels, yet Dick seemed unfazed. Comfortable, even.

Wally narrowed his eyes. “Of course you’re good at roller skating,” he pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, really — what aren’t you good at?”

There was a couple seconds pause as Dick pondered his answer before Wally hardened his gaze, cutting him off with a jab of his finger.

“Don’t answer that,” the redhead grumbled.

Dick chuckled, smoothing out the front of his sweater before offering his hand to Wally. “Here,” he said, quirking a brow when Wally hesitated — mainly for his own pride, he knew — before giving in and clasping his hand into Dick’s. “Just try taking a step. _Slowly_.”

Listening to the other boy, Wally did as he was told, which, despite how slow he tried to take it, resulted in some severe teetering as soon as his skate touched the floor, his knee buckling above it. He let out a strangled squeal before he found himself being balanced by the anchor attached at his hand. “Steady, Wal,” said Dick, his grip warm and grounding all at once. “I’ve got you.”

In one swift movement, Dick skated around so he was beside Wally, switching his hands so that he could steady the redhead by his elbow. “It’s just like walking. Shift your weight so that you’re right on top of your leading foot when you step.”

At a somehow-slower pace than his last attempt, Wally took a step, following Dick’s advice and breathing out in relief when he _didn’t_ wobble. “I’m a runner, not a walker,” he protested.

“Sometimes it’s good to slow down.” Dick’s hold on him was more encouraging than Wally would have liked to admit as he guided the redhead into another step. “It’d probably help you limit the amount of times you walk straight into walls at the Tower.” If Wally could have jabbed at him without risking losing his balance, he would have.

Soon, Wally’s steps were less stagger and more stone, until they were less like steps and more like strides. Dick was back in front of him, skating backwards with both of Wally’s hands in his, encouraging the older boy as he led him around the rink. “See, Wally? You’re totally getting the hang of it!” He grinned up at the redhead, taking his concentration off their skates for a moment to meet his best friend’s brightened gaze. “I told you it was easy—”

He was cut off with a yelp as Wally’s skate caught on the floor, sending him tumbling forward and into the smaller boy. They hit the ground hard, ending up in a mess of tangled limbs, Wally holding himself up by his arms over Dick, cheeks painted red in embarrassment.

“Shit— sorry,” said Wally as he sat up, his shamrock stare averting to his lap.

Dick laughed it off as he also pushed himself up into a sitting position. “No worries, dude. Happens to the best of us.” His smile softened as he recaptured his friend’s troubled gaze. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just…” Wally trailed off, pursing his lips. “Do you wanna take a break?”

After the task that was trying to get off the rink without anymore stumbling or running into other skaters, the duo found themselves at an empty table a couple paces away from the concession stand, a half-eaten basket of fries and some light banter slotted between them. The music was a little quieter in this area, allowing them to hear each other better without Bonnie Tyler playing over them, until their chatter soon fizzled into comfortable silence. After a couple minutes, Dick stuck the rest of the ketchup-dipped fry he was working on into his mouth, running a hand through his black hair before leaning back into the booth, eyeing his best friend’s slumped posture and longing gaze out onto the rink they’d just left.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dick broke the silence, shooting the redhead a concerned gaze from across the table. “You hit the ground pretty hard back there.” Despite his words, Dick wasn’t just referencing the fall, and he’s sure Wally knew as much; Wally had been acting _off_ since they put on the skates. Even when they stopped for food, which was usually a certified Wally West mood lifter, the speedster seemed like his mind was elsewhere.

The older teen cringed internally before snatching another fry from the basket. “Me? Dude, I should be asking you. I pretty much landed on top of you.”

“Nothing that being a nocturnal crime-fighting vigilante hasn’t prepared me for,” Dick smirked before softening his gaze again. He paused for a moment before grazing Wally’s shin beneath the table with the tip of his rollerblade. “Seriously, though. What’s up?”

Despite how much Wally wanted to reassure Dick that everything was fine, he was sure that the look of him absentmindedly worrying his bottom lip between his teeth wasn’t a promising sign. With a sigh, Wally finally caved. “I’m sorry this is such a lousy first date,” he said, his eyes falling to his lap. “We should have just gone to the arcade like you suggested.”

At that, Dick furrowed his brows, leaning forward in his seat. “It’s not lousy,” said the teen, letting his hands rest on top of the table. “What made you think that?”

Wally gave the younger boy an incredulous look. “Rob, I can barely stand on these things,” he said, gesturing to the rollerblades still tied to his feet, “much less skate.”

“Who cares?” Dick shrugged before flashing him a teasing smile. “It makes it more fun, watching you stumble all over the place.” He chuckled as Wally sent a light kick to his knee. His laughter died down as he met the eyes of the redhead across the table for the nth time that afternoon, his gaze soft and genuine. “But really, I’m glad we came here.”

Wally perked up just slightly. “Really?”

“Wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Dick grinned, eyes dancing across the freckles on the older boy’s cheeks. “I mean, you could have taken me to a junkyard and I still would’ve been happy to be there with you,” he teased.

“I _have_ been meaning to go pick up some extra parts to tinker with.”

And despite the sportive nudge Dick sent him beneath the table, Wally still found himself reaching across and clasping onto one of Dick’s hands that was left resting atop the surface like it was the most natural thing to do — because in a way, it _was_ — and his goofy smile widened impossibly further when Dick squeezed his hand back.

When the song playing in the arena ended and the familiar chords of a lovestruck ballad began to fizzle through the speakers, Wally shuffled out of the booth, holding his hand out to Dick from his spot above the table.

“Wanna head back out there?” The redhead asked with a grin. “One last song?”

As much as Dick probably should have said no for Wally’s sake, the smile on his best friend’s face was difficult to turn down, especially with the redhead’s renewed spirit and a song—

“— by 'Sin by Silence’, no less,” Dick finished his own thought aloud as he took Wally’s hand and let himself be hauled to his feet (albeit shakily, but that was neither here nor there).

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Wally, the clever repetition not going unnoticed by Dick.

Getting back onto the rink was a lot easier than it had been getting off. Unsurprisingly, Wally was a lot more stable on his skates, although he still had to cling onto Dick’s arm to get them to the centre of the rink, the other rollerbladers coasting around them like a ring. As they drifted to a stop, Wally’s grip on Dick loosened, floating down to grasp his hand.

“For the record, I’m not good at baking brownies,” said Dick, smiling sheepishly in the admittance as he stepped forward to face his best friend, hands still connected. “Also, I’m not great at ballroom dancing.”

Wally laughed, squeezing Dick’s hand as he steadied himself once more. Chuckling along with him, Dick let his smirk soften, bringing his other hand up until it was resting against Wally’s chest. He tilted his head up to meet the other boy’s gaze, ocean blue eyes peeking through his black bangs.

“I’m also not very good at showing the person I like how much I truly like them,” he whispered.

With crinkles at the corners of his eyes, Wally brought his free hand up, brushing Dick’s unruly hair off his face before resting his palm on his cheek. His skin was incredibly soft. “Don’t worry, you’re not having any trouble with that,” he replied, his breath tickling Dick’s nose before he leaned down the rest of the way, Dick meeting him halfway to capture the speedster’s lips. Seconds, minutes, hours could have passed, they wouldn’t have known, but at some point Dick’s hand found its way up to the back of Wally’s neck, fingers grazing the ends of his hair, and Wally’s thumb swiped itself across his cheekbone as he hummed and dipped further, memorizing the way Dick’s lips felt on his. When they finally parted, the roller rink was still moving around them, and Dick couldn’t help the smile that found its way onto his cheeks. 

It was hardly their first kiss — the impromptu makeout they shared after confessing their feelings for each other at the Tower could attest to that — but it was the first kiss on their first date, and that alone filled Dick with a sort of giddiness that had him memorializing two facts: that he wanted to do it again (and again and again and again), and that as long as he lived, he would never, _ever_ forget this moment.   
  
  


-

Years later, a few hours after the debacle at Rabin Square, Dick found himself back at the boarding school covering for Spyral’s base of operations, signing off on his nightly mission report to Bruce through the makeshift transmission he’d made out of the alarm clock in his suite. It was only when he finally stopped moving, head back on his pillow and eyes drilling holes into his ceiling, that he realized he didn’t know why he said what he did fighting that band on stage earlier, and that he couldn’t recall ever going roller skating as a teenager, nor could he remember who the redhead he spoke about actually was. He didn’t know where it came from, but it left him with a feeling he couldn’t quite shake, like it somehow felt like more than just a distant memory—

With a shake of his head, Dick turned out the light on his bedside table, rolled over and closed his eyes, trying (but failing) to sleep off the feeling he was missing something.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear when I started writing this I didn't intend for it to have such an angsty ending, but I couldn't resist.
> 
> Comments and feedback always appreciated! :)


End file.
